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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512201">quiet days (and nights)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnneovelvet/pseuds/damnneovelvet'>damnneovelvet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>EXO (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Chef Do Kyungsoo | D.O, Food Critic, Gen, M/M, Magical Realism, Midnight Diner - Freeform, POV Second Person, Sad with a Happy Ending, fast burn, you are the guardian angel who was absent when required</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:21:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,809</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnneovelvet/pseuds/damnneovelvet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Criticism is art. </p><p>Art has a way of dissolving sugar into bitterness. </p><p>Sometimes, the final product is sweet—which soothes your palette because you enjoy the smoothness of a sweet rush on your tongue—but sometimes, and heavens forbid this happens too often, all that sugar disappears into nothing.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Do Kyungsoo | D.O/Kim Minseok | Xiumin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Vargavinter Round 1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>quiet days (and nights)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>to the prompter: this is not what you expect, probably, because I couldn't pull off humour and it became this. it also turned out to be surprisingly flash fiction-y. I hope you enjoy it nevertheless &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Criticism is art. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Art has a way of dissolving sugar into bitterness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, the final product is sweet—which soothes your palette because you enjoy the smoothness of a sweet rush on your tongue—but sometimes, and heavens forbid one time too many, all that sugar disappears into nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You learn how to skin words and mince them so that sharpness to prickle all over. It's like garlic but in the same breath it's not. You heard it from Minseok years ago. He had been happy back then, and you didn't need to look after him anymore, so you left and you missed the one event when he had needed you most. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look at one misunderstanding, then you dissect it till everything becomes a mistake, and then the world believes a fallacy; they  look you in the eye and tell you to weigh your opinions once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Criticism cannot be art if it pierces through hearts.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>"You must resign," a man in a navy blue suit says. This colour would look better on Minseok, you believe, but he wears an old shirt with a collar that hasn't been scrubbed in months. The sleeves of his cardigan are dotted with tendrils of wool curling on themselves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It wasn't my mistake," Minseok says. You take pity on his voice, rough with unshed tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man sighs, then leans forward with an assessing gaze. You have a feeling this man likes Minseok well enough but there are irreversible reactions and then there are reversible ones—like this man's fondness that fades with every passing second. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Even if it wasn't, The Sapphire has sued us because of </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> negative review."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Would it be better if they had sued me alone?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course. It would be." The man's warmth crumbles like the burnt end of a cigarette and Minseok doesn't see it because his eyes are fixed on the marble floor, but you do. You see the way his voice is calm but the muscles of his aged face twist into barely hidden contempt. You want to pull Minseok out of this office immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then can't you convince them to do that?" He sounds lost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If we could, it would have happened already. Look here, Kim. One man versus an established food magazine. Which one do you think will win? We will. But for our image to be clean again, we also need to get rid of the man who caused us the trouble. Don't you see? You aren't liked by anyone anymore."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minseok's back hunches more than it already has. You want to leave the room but you can't. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They fired someone because of you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?" Minseok's neck snaps so fast you fear he will break it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They claim they fired the man who mixed up your ingredients that morning. You ate there in the evening." You know what this means—it's something bad. You see it in the slight tremble of his wrists where he clenches his fist. "Why didn't you just leave it be? What got into you, huh, Kim?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some guardian angel you are, not saving him when you should have.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Orange, yellow, molten gold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You see the sunset threaten to burn itself onto Minseok's eyes. They come from the same place he comes from. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks, and almost as if the colours had been hanging by the tips of his eyelashes, they vanish into oblivion. The sun is a ball of fire and the sky turns pink until he can't recognise the usual tint of his skin or any shade of human flesh—he burns orange. The darkness swallows him up as tears glaze his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is a beautiful man. His soft features in his youth have given way to knowing cheekbones and a smile capable of stealing hearts. Without his smile, though, you feel your world turn upside down, like right now, when his lips pull into a frown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You have seen him cry only once as a child. You want to reach out and steady his footsteps, worried that he will slump onto the street like a body without bones. Your worries are dumbfounded. He tightens his grasp around the convenience store bag in his hand and walks with determination. Amongst the artificial rustling of plastic, a roll of cheap kimbap falls apart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the distance, insects chirp as they find their way home for the night. </span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>You sit in the corner of his kitchen as Minseok forgoes his fancy knives and tears coriander by hand instead. The freshness of it seems to snap him out of the daze he woke up with. He gently bites into a stem before he sprinkles the leaves over his dinner—plain yellow Dal, simple on digestion, loving on the tongue—and for a second you see him hesitate. His fingers are tense as they reach for his spice drawer. Then he pulls them back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head and ladles his meal into a bowl. You see the steam waft into the air and your stomach churns with want for human food. He has always been gifted. You would know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But today his eyes don't shine. Only his hair does—under soft sunlight—because it has turned greasy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bodies can be warm. Memories can be cold. But warm things freeze when they touch ice, just as love turns to sharp crystals when it meets frigidity. Even a burning desire that runs so deep that it stems from the veins can turn cold when all it does is snow in the cavity of your chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He eats carefully, the food too hot for him—the rice is too mushy for his liking today—and doesn't care when a little food spills over. You know turmeric stains. Minseok knows it too. He doesn't get up to clean his t-shirt, just sits on a stool at the counter with his mouth set in a hard line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't finish and both his bowls end up in the fridge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hot things should melt ice. Passion, rage, the flames of unresolved tension, and words—steaming words right off the stove, ready to scald tongues and fingertips—should be able to cleave through algid masks but they don't. They produce steam. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Triple point. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Always</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the triple point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Coexistence, however, is a sham. </span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>You piece together the things you see. Paling skin, eyes with dark circles, a tired posture and constantly piling laundry. This is the first time you see a man lamenting. He drowns himself in guilt every morning and every night then tops it off with the sorrows of losing his lavish life as he had known it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he stands in the elevator, you see his neighbour and her friend take a step away from him. He doesn't give in. He stands with a poker face—of course, he has mastered it—and strides into the lobby with a straightened back. You hear it then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I've seen him on TV before. Isn't he that critic who…?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah. Turns out he was misusing his position to eat for free everywhere. It must be nice to have no respect for someone's work." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minseok is already far away from them but the hair standing at the back of his neck makes it feel like he knows they are talking about him. You feel a wave of uneasiness in your stomach. You wish you had the power to undo things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I heard he forced so many chefs to quit. Is it true?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Who knows. If you've heard it, then it must be." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why?</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Minseok has shifted to cooking the bare minimum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It has been three months and you wonder if he is budgeting with the way he doesn't as much as glance at anything that could be used to cook something delicious. All he makes are rice—often turned soggy because of how long he leaves them to sit in the steamer—and the occasional vegetables he sautées, all simple and plain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some nights, he fries three eggs at once and that is all he eats. He talks to his plants nowadays because nobody calls him. When he calls them, their phones are always busy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's as if the zest of flavour has been stolen from him. You fear he is punishing himself for something that can be resolved. You wouldn't know because you used to know him when he was seventeen and struggling to face his little failures, not now when he is twenty-seven and lonely in his oversized apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He squeezes lemon onto his food some nights. It's pathetic. You decide that you will do him a little miracle and gather all the forces in your body. He deserves it.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>There is an inability to accept that most of us are mundane, that we will never be as great as we like to dream. You—unlike your kind—have the inability to realise that there can be smaller greats aside from lavish chandeliers on our ceilings and plush carpets under our feet to welcome us into elevators that lead seventy stories up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can save a world by changing a few moments in one person's life, and yet… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You refuse to acknowledge it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that is you of the past—because you shed those thoughts the moment they fled Minseok's body and turned him into this humbled shell of himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As you follow Minseok on the way back home, you feel your heart sizzle. You feel the sandpapered touch of magic where fingertips should be and the heat of a changed future touching your lips. You see a restaurant in the distance. It is small enough to hide from everyone but a dedicated clientele. It glows. Minseok continues to walk, unaware that something in the air has changed, that his destiny is now dyed with the scent of saffron.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You have a good feeling about this place—which is an understatement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so you lead him there. Minseok is skeptical when he stops a few feet away from the sliding doors that first night. He looks to his left, then to his right—piercing eyes look through you—and then back to the deep blue curtain that bears the restaurant's name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The place is warm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A crack runs along the grain of the wooden floor—inflicted, not incurred—like broken earth, and Minseok traces it with lonely eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are but a few customers dotting the small place but they all talk in low voices with content expressions. There is a single, long counter in the middle that separates the kitchen from the dining area and Minseok's face lights up. He likes it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a seat at the counter and taps his fingers gently, observing the space keenly. There isn't much you understand about his fascination with the decoration and set-up of eating spaces, but there must be an art to presenting an eatery. There must be skill involved in knowing where to place the napkins and where to stock the sauces.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minseok has been here once before when the place looked a little different, under the care of a well-meaning old man. He has never seen this man before, though, who stands behind the curtain, face half-hidden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chef, you soon learn, is kind and doesn't ask any questions despite noticing the puffiness of Minseok's eyes. He greets his newest customer with a tasteful introduction to the diner and offers the menu. His voice is soothing to you and to Minseok, and the way his hands tug at the hem of his apron makes Minseok's fingers twitch because of his cuteness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The menu is simple. A wide variety of East Asian dishes and some simpler western dishes are offered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is there anything the chef recommends?" Minseok asks with caution.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I have marinated fish today, would you like braised sea bass?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, not really. Is there something easy on the stomach?" You think of how little Minseok has been eating and get worried about his stomach. Maybe you should have nudged him towards a pharmacy first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I suggest sweetened egg rolls, then."</span>
</p><p><span>The first bite of food leaves Minseok about to break into tears when he realises he doesn't need to critique anything.</span> <span>The texture is so soft that it melts in his mouth. The garnish is sparse and just a sprinkle of salt and greens, but he glows in delight and eats faster than he has in days. </span></p><p>
  <span>When he pays, compliments the chef and asks for his name—"Do Kyungsoo, I recently took over."—he feels calm and yet his insides shake when he realises there is no review to write or no recommendations to get back to. There is no office building. There is no word document waiting for him to fill with praise. It is relieving but it simultaneously digs a hole so wide he falls into it along with everything surrounding him.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>You follow Minseok as he retraces his steps to the diner. The front door is just as worn today as it was yesterday and as it was probably a decade ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hesitates and mumbles to himself. You give him a gentle push.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the door rattles open and he bows in with a timid expression on his face, you begin to worry if your judgement was right. Maybe this place won't do wonders for him. Maybe it was just the years of piled up magic that called out to you. You start fretting about how you're going to make it up to Minseok when you notice that the diner has just three other customers. None of them looks at Minseok—not in the way people avoid him in his building, but in the general way that strangers often don't see strangers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air is humid yet scented with spice. When he sits down on a rickety stool and thumbs through the thin menu, you see a little smile of relief play at the corners of his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chef clears his throat then, his expression just as pensive as it was last night. You think he carries an air of simplicity. His stern face and thick-rimmed glasses do little to hide the glow of his skin and his loose shirt clings to the skin where it is dredged under an apron. If he had brought a knife in his hand, his restaurant would be empty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You like him. You don't know why or how but this man reminds you that you must stay grounded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you have any chef's recommendations?" Minseok asks. Old habits die hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's the same as yesterday." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then I'll have one serving of rolled omelette, please." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You see Minseok's eyes follow his frame. Part of the reason he likes this diner is that the kitchen is visible from the seat he has chosen. There is warmth in his nose and the home-like sprinkle of salt sitting under his tongue. His eyes don't leave the rectangular skillet moving skillfully, as if it were dancing with the flames of the burner. Every time a new layer of egg is poured, you find yourself wanting to build a blanket like that to cover up your boy. The little clicks and clanks fill your ears to drown out the murmuring of the world outside—the one that refuses to believe the idea of individual people leading individual lives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes about ten minutes before the plate is served. It looks much better than food at a midnight diner should. There is a green topping you don't know the name of and there is a sweet sauce trailing across the plate in a gentle curve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It reminds you of Minseok's missing smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He will be fine here.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>A week passes faster than you expect. You hover like a ghost—hands and body transparent—behind Minseok with protective words curled at the tip of your inexistent tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is easy to like Kyungsoo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moves with finesse around the little restaurant with a simple expression on his face and smiles when someone compliments him. You think the dusting of pink on his ears is a blush. Minseok thinks similarly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes follow Kyungsoo more often than they should. One day it's after eating the first bite of a well seared filet of salmon, the next it's while sipping cheap apple cider bought from the department store one block away. Soon, Minseok's gaze sticks to the folds in his t-shirts as he seamlessly deals with lighters, gas stoves and steaming kettles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You've started to come more often." It is code for: You are a regular now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minseok smiles—one of those cheeky ones he has been practicing in front of the mirror for days—and tilts his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I like your cooking." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You know he isn't lying. He wouldn't need to, not to impress this sturdy man whom he has taken a sudden liking to. Minseok eats more sitting on this rickety stool than he eats while curled up on his plush sofa. His jaw moves with vigour with every bite and his tongue pokes the flesh of his lower lip to chase the taste after he is done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don't know how Kyungsoo's cooking tastes but something about the way it settles well in Minseok's belly puts you at ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Really? That's good to hear." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To a stranger, this would sound clipped and obligatory. After observing him every night for a week, you could sign an affidavit to confirm that this man is a lot shyer than he looks. He has a good heart, though. You don't know it but Minseok seems to have a gut feeling about it and you have learned to trust him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It reminds me of both my mother's cooking and professional work. How long have you been cooking?" Minseok asks. The overhead lights sparkle in his wide eyes. This is a question he loves to ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Give or take, six years." Kyungsoo answers, eyes shooting to the side just once when an overly enthusiastic customer almost knocks over their dish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How come I've never seen you here before?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This used to be my grandfather's place. He passed away recently and I took over."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My condolences."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you. He would have liked to see you," These are more words than either you or Minseok expected from him. “He liked having regular customers."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I would have loved to meet him too. This place is warm. I can tell it's been well-loved," Minseok says. He is such a kind soul—never saying what he doesn't mean—and you wish you could hold his hand and take him to places beyond the boundaries of this living world. Alas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One night of conversation turns to frequent exchanges of random remarks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I love the garnish on this."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you measure everything by scale?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Where did you learn to cut the meat like this?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Boiling eggs is extremely difficult and yet, I've never had one that wasn't done to my liking when you make them."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did you strain the oil from your tomatoes?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Even the tea you brew is perfect."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kyungsoo asks Minseok to stay back a month later, having caught on to his obvious love for trying new food and unable to disregard his tasteful comments. Minseok has nothing better to do at home—it looks like a college student's safehouse now—and waits until everyone else leaves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This silence is new.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clock ticks behind him and something bubbles away in a soup pot, viscous and creamy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's not a menu item," Kyungsoo explains as he serves a bowl of what Minseok assumes is cream of mushroom soup. "And it's been a while since I made something… not Asian. I thought you would like to taste it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You blush when Minseok blushes—his fingers pale against the silver of his spoon—and if Kyungsoo wasn't filling the crevices of Minseok's empty heart before, he sure is now.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>The first thing Minseok falls in love with is the flavour of Kyungsoo's cooking. His dishes, whether steaming or chilled, taste divine. Minseok thinks he is professionally trained—his counter work being too clean—and he often wants to voice the thought but Kyungsoo would have said something. It's been another month of knowing each other, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They share glances when no one is looking. They blush when their fingertips touch. When Minseok feeds Kyungsoo from his own chopsticks, you can feel the flush of fondness radiating from their bodies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is difficult to not like the softened edges of a man who knows how you like to eat your best comfort meals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They talk in hushed voices. Kyungsoo leaves a little message on the Omurice Minseok orders one evening. They exchange phone numbers after days of hesitation and colour starts seeping back into Minseok's life when Kyungsoo sends him pet pictures and cute stickers in reply. He opens his windows now. He bakes meringues and shares them with everyone eating at the restaurant one night, smiling kindly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Minseok laughs over a silly pun, while waiting for Kyungsoo to close for the night, and receives a heart-shaped smile in return, you realise there was never a way to not fall for this man who embodies patience and comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time flies as it must. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You see it swish past in tendrils of glitter and you say hello when a moment stops by to kiss Minseok on the cheek. </span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>With a sense of emotion whirling in his chest, Minseok starts feeling jittery to do something. In love, there is always a need to prove yourself to the universe—to tell them perhaps, that yes, you deserve this one. In good love, you better yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Would you like to work here?" Kyungsoo offers one lazy morning as he peels carrots to chop them for curry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's a great offer," Minseok nods but then he breaks into a shy smile, "but not yet. I'm not sure I'd be any help."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's not easy to run this place alone. So whatever you do, you'll be helpful."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words create comfort and you want to whisper in Minseok's ears to take this opportunity. Live a simple life. But you can't get there without feeling an obstruction and soon there is a wall that stands to separate you from him. You wish he could hear you. Doubt clouds his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll let you know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kyungsoo changes the topic then, yet, you see it in the imprecise dice of the carrots later that he also has thoughts swirling in his head, drowning better memories in his skull. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minseok starts looking for a job then. He fills in interview applications for as many places as he qualifies for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It almost feels like you're seeing a version of him you missed out on before: fresh out of university, struggling to make ends meet with the same shirt on for every interview and a talented portfolio that gets looked over when a better dressed student or another smug face with a recommendation letter overtakes him. You wonder if he ever cried back then like he does now, in the comfort of his pillows and nearly-dead fern plant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minseok comes back later that night and walks Kyungsoo home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You think they'll be fine.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Minseok's cheeks grow cherry red when he reaches out to intertwine his fingers with Kyungsoo's. The walk home today is silent. No silence is empty—neither is this—for it rings with unspoken truths. Minseok's fiddling and warmth speaks for itself and when you turn to look at Kyungsoo, you see him biting his lower lip with a happy gaze fixed in the cold streets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It becomes routine to walk home together. Minseok drops Kyungsoo off at his apartment complex and then walks home all giddy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, he stops by to have tea and watch the television. They sit with fluffy blankets wrapped around them and a drama plays in the background most of these nights, to be forgotten, of course. You are the only one who watches them and sometimes when Minseok laughs too loudly you are forced to intrude on their private moments and look. He looks happy. You feel butterflies in your stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They share a kiss one night, filled with the sweetness of patience. It is soft, with gentle fingers tracing gentler features and lips pressing in deeper. Traces of relief linger in their hearts when they exchange a look. You don't understand what goes unsaid between them—perhaps those words they have learnt to share in their silences—but you look away respectfully when Minseok's hand comes to rest on the nape of Kyungsoo's neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Minseok offers more, Kyungsoo says he'll take up on that offer soon. He says it with another kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You feel lonely looking at them.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>"Why did you take over the diner?" Minseok asks, navigating his way around Kyungsoo's kitchen with ease. He pulls out a closed box of chamomile tea from the cupboard and tears the plastic open. You want them to brew Jasmine because it smells better in your opinion, but being voiceless means you'll have to put up with the chamomile. It's a small sacrifice you can make for your favourite people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hm? Ah, I told you about my grandfather."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I remember but, what did you do before this, is what I meant. Didn't you cook somewhere? Professionally?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The water kettle steams and Minseok unplugs it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I did. Gained lots of good experience. It helps me manage the diner's kitchen now," Kyungsoo, simple and lovable Kyungsoo, starts arranging the cushions and pillows into a pit. So cozy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Where did you work? Maybe I've eaten there before," Minseok giggles, looking for two mugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"At The Sapphire." Your gut drops.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minseok halts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I worked as an executive sous chef. Things went south because my boss didn't like the critic who walked in one day and he didn't think he will get a negative review. But he did. Pushed the blame around and I was… for lack of better words, fired."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minseok feels the ground shatter beneath his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You knew. You knew all this time." He says. His voice quivers. When he looks at Kyungsoo in the distance, his expression says it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I did," Kyungsoo whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minseok flees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tugs his shoes on, snatches his bag and runs. He's too fast for you to follow and you are pulled through the ether faster than light. Your heart rips apart—from the speed and for him.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>In the time Minseok doesn't visit the diner again, he realises that he likes Kyungsoo more than he thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Love holds no prerequisites, only preferences do. If Minseok were asked just five months ago, he would say that he dreams of a rose-coloured love: dancing in Parisian balconies, buying flowers, flying around the world in private jets, and maybe sharing fluttering kisses over fine dining. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, he thinks love can be a warm tone of beige: watching his back as he sautées vegetables, leaving a compliment to see the corners of his lips quirk upwards, experiencing flavours from all around the world while sitting at a counter, and maybe catching his eyes for a second before looking away knowingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most of all, love didn't have a name before this. Now it does. It's called Do Kyungsoo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't stray towards the diner for a fortnight, unable to face his lover as he bears the pain of guilt in his stomach like it was an ingredient that doesn't suit him. His eyes linger and the traffic fills his ears. He doesn't stop walking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn't at fault. You know that. Yet you can't help him from feeling differently. Forgiveness is not a word in Minseok's dictionary. You tried touching his hand when he was a child to tell him that he can learn to believe in the goodness of his own heart. But he couldn't hear you. Even if he could, how would he ever learn to forgive when he has never tasted what it feels like to be forgiven. His taste buds are honed to flavours an ordinary man will never recognise but this, he doesn't know even the scent of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sweet kisses with whispered words of comfort don't exist where one gaze pierces through the other as if they were a decade old prisoner—a ghost from the past that should have never been there, to begin with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He applies for more smaller magazines and even writes to a local newspaper about running a column. It won't pay that well, but it's somewhere to start. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kyungsoo's offer echoes in his mind every morning when he stands over his stove.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How would it feel like to work at the place he has managed to make so many good memories in? The glances, the conversations, the food. Everything crystallises in his heart like a treasure. And still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sting of nails breaking the skin can live with the pain of walking around with a jagged glass heart, put together with stolen duct tape, and screams of pleasure—three fingers deep, squelching with heat and lube, ready to feel the brunt of untethered emotions—can grow to live on the shelf where Minseok keeps records of shouting matches that ended with broken plates and cups, right next to his childhood memories of being scolded for never being the best. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he takes the simpler route and chooses not to forgive himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he craves light shoulders and a heart that doesn't topple over with every glare thrown his way. You burn with the guilt of being unable to help him. When you go back to heaven, they will look at you with sad eyes, and you will agree with them when they say how unfortunate it is that your lovely human became a shell of himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sit on the floor with your legs crossed. He stirs a pot of ramen in the distance with a lost look in his eyes. </span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>It happens when he goes out to buy groceries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can feel it coming amongst the many footsteps on the pavement outside. Minseok needs it. You flutter out of the way and hide behind a display of discounted soft drink cans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is choosing between mango and strawberry flavoured cornflakes with a forlorn mask. The shelf towers over him and he resembles an unwatered succulent in his dark green jacket. He doesn't hear the footsteps, not even when grocery stores at night are liminal spaces to be wary of. He has always felt safe surrounded by food, after all. Who is going to tell him that it isn't food that will protect him, but himself and the people who cook his favourite dishes?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know, that'll only give you four bowls worth if you have it with milk." Kyungsoo's voice soothes Minseok the way cold Aloe Vera would. "You can probably get four whole meals at mine for free, anytime."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's bad for business."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You knew and you never said anything." It's about The Sapphire again. It's about Kyungsoo's lost, high-grade job and Minseok's guilt monster that has eight-four pointy teeth and wool on its head. You know the guy. It's always bored and looking to bite Minseok's arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because it wasn't your fault."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Your review was true to a fault. The mistake was my senior's. How is it your fault that hotel politics exist?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minseok looks at Kyungsoo then and melts like hot candle wax.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're not going to convince me otherwise."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kyungsoo walks closer. He is a man of solid determination and he knows what distress looks like. You root for him like you have begun to root for the lead of that stupid drama you used to watch when Minseok was still a regular at Kyungsoo's apartment. If there's an ulterior motive you have for Minseok making up with Kyungsoo, it's because you want to watch television at night, which Minseok never does when he's alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Can I convince you to come and eat with me?" Kyungsoo holds out his hand, palm facing the ceiling, hopes and affection far higher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And why do you still want to do that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because I like you. A lot. I think that's a good reason."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They hug then—impulsive and too loud, crushing the cornflakes box between their chests—and Minseok whispers endless apologies into the crook of Kyungsoo's neck. They only hold each other tighter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wonder if they will kiss in public.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They do and you don't look away. The guilt monster scurries to sit next to you and you gently slap it on the head.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Minseok makes it through a quarter of the job applications he sent and doesn't qualify any interviews he was called for. Perhaps he is secretly blacklisted now, what all with being fired by an extremely famous magazine. Who would want to hire him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it doesn't matter to him anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He writes about the dishes he enjoys at night with a cup of warm jasmine tea next to his laptop. He takes more pictures of foods that look pleasing. He takes more pictures of Kyungsoo. In some of them, his heart-shaped lips are pulled into a satisfied smile, and those pictures slowly grow to become his treasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look on from the corner you linger in as Minseok's cheeks flush pink with the heat of a new summer. He looks healthier than he did last year when he was struggling with a sudden overflow of emotions that reality hadn't deemed important to prepare him for. You see his steady feet, a spring in his step, and you see his lowered shoulders—all the phantom weight of his loneliness missing without a trace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This looks easy on him. Love looks beautiful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You know he hides more job applications in his bedside drawer but they aren't his priority because he has something better to tend to. You finally know that your job here is over because your palms start to disappear. You gave him one miracle. That miracle has shaped his life for the better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Home can be the moistened skin of your lover, the dips between their fingers and the shimmer that hides in their eyes beyond thick-rimmed glasses. Home can be four wooden walls with old curtains, three potted plants at the edge of a well-loved counter, two wooden chairs facing each other and a singular space that is comfortable to breathe in. Home can be the pages of an abandoned cookbook—showing up in the pile of books you meant to throw away—with fading printer ink and smudged pencil along the margins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Home is what you make it. Home is a feeling, and feelings are creatures of their own that latch onto whatever they deem fit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every night, Minseok puts on an apron with the diner's logo hand-painted on the front. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles wide and drops a kiss on Kyungsoo's lips—his own home.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>a few years of struggling, and then they get their happily ever after :D</p></blockquote></div></div>
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